I Hate Everyone

by Telephoneman

Tags: Ma/ft, Romantic,

Desc: Romantic Story: A young man loses his mother and takes his anger out on the world. It takes a young girl to slowly bring him round

I stood by the grave, not even aware of the rain. Rain that was washing away the tears. Tears that I was equally unaware of. I was in a state of shock, unable to accept that it was MY mother in the casket; my mum, the only person in my world that I could talk to. Talk to about anything and everything. The only person who really cared about me.

I was angry, an extremely selfish anger. I didn't care how her death affected others, not my father, not even my fifteen year old younger brother. I could only think how I was affected. My anger was directed at the car driver and his inability to stay on the road. I ignored simple facts like the burst tyre, his slow speed and sobriety. I ignored the massive fact that Mum had only a few months to live anyway, before the cancer took her. I reacted with real venom to anyone who said that it saved her a great deal of pain and suffering. It was my suffering that concerned me; as I said, totally selfish.

I hated the large congregation that had gathered to say goodbye. My mother was extremely popular on our estate, and at work, which was more than could be said for me. Since I could walk, mischief was a close companion. I never got into serious trouble, though more than enough to annoy just about every neighbour around. My lack of respect for my elders; I believed respect should be earned by more than being born before me; ensured that the older generation I came into contact with disliked me. My peers generally hated me because I was different, I didn't join in with their games and I couldn't be bullied, although a few tried. The ferocity of my response ensured that none tried twice. I was a loner and unusual for a child, one through choice. I was happier in my own company, believing that I didn't need anyone else. That, of course, didn't include my mother, my rock.

I hated the vicar or priest or whatever he was, standing reading from the biggest book of fiction ever written. My mother hadn't believed in religion, though she had believed in a god. I, on the other hand, didn't believe in any deity and hated anything and anybody religious. The only time I'd ever been suspended from school was after a strong disagreement during R.I ... For every reason that the teacher said proved God's existence, i.e. nature, I came up with a disaster or something similar, i.e. nature. The teacher then made me laugh when he used the old favourite 'God moves in mysterious ways' which I said was just a cop out because he couldn't refute my argument. Apparently I said it far too strongly and it earned me an extra few days holiday.

In church, the man with a black frock spoke of my mother, as if they were best friends when, in fact he'd never even met her. I was angry with my father for allowing him to attend, never mind to officiate. He also felt my venom when he had the nerve to tell me that my mother was in a better place.

Gradually I became aware that I was the last person standing at the grave. Some indeterminable time later I too left to walk back to my empty home, empty at least of the only person that mattered. I had a vague recollection of telling my father to leave me alone and take all the hangers-on away and his angry response at my less than polite attitude to the vicar and the congregation.

The slow walk home, done mainly in a daze, took around ninety minutes by which time I hoped everyone would have left. No chance of that, there was free food and more importantly free booze. No one would be leaving until that well run dry.

Oblivious to my soaking wet clothes I opened the door as quietly as I could and tried to sneak in and go straight to my bedroom but my father spotted me and dragged me into the front room, not even accepting my plea to change. I think he was aware that I wouldn't have returned.

I didn't need to look to see who spoke but I did anyway. Pamela Roberts had once been my closest friend, perhaps even my only friend, but that had been a good few years ago. I never gave her the chance to complete her inadequate comment. 'I don't care whether you're sorry or not. You haven't spoken to me, nor any other boy around here, since the day you got tits. We are not good enough for you now, with your peroxide hair and cosmetic looks, so I don't give a shit what you think, you're only here for the free booze anyway.'

As I spoke my father was trying to pull my snarling face away from his 'guest'.

'You will apologise to Pamela this instant, ' said my shocked father as an equally astonished crowd looked on.

'Or what?' I asked, not at all caring what the answer was.

I had never gotten along too well with my father, who was a true socialite, mixing with anybody and everybody. He was a good enough father, in that he worked hard to provide for his family and ensured that we never went without any essentials. He worked, and played, so hard that I hardly saw him for the first dozen or so years of my life. I knew that he was disappointed in me because I showed no inclination to play the team sports that he loved and absolutely no desire to spend my free time in the pub with him and his mates. He was lucky though as my younger brother seemed to be following in his footsteps. That and the five year age difference were just two of the reasons why Paul and I weren't that close.

Giving him time to think, didn't help much as I saw him struggling for a response and to maintain some calm.

'Or you can leave this house until you know how to behave.' He finally answered.

'Fine!' I responded sharply before yanking my arm from his grip and storming upstairs. It took just a few minutes to throw some things into my duffel bag and walk out, pushing past a couple of guests trying to tell me to calm down. The rain had gradually gotten heavier and the wind was up too. I actually relished the discomfort, I didn't want to feel good.

Fortunately, the funeral had been in the morning and I had enough time and luck to find a furnished flat that I could move into immediately, though to enable that to happen, I'd had to cough up six month's rental in advance. Again I turned out lucky, in that the flat was a good one with quite reasonable quality fittings. I would have taken almost anything and repented at leisure.

I wasn't working again that week so I had chance to move my few belongings from my bedroom to the flat. I ensured that I chose a time when I knew my father wasn't around.

I was due back at work on Sunday evening at ten o'clock so had plenty of time to settle into my new home, though 'home' was probably not the correct term at that time. I went running a lot, clocking up at least ten miles a day, sometimes more and I visited Mum's grave every day. I talked to her, telling her what had happened and venting my anger. She never once answered.

I had calmed down somewhat when I arrived at work. One of the things that I loved about my job was that I hardly saw anyone. I worked as a placer in a local potbank, not like the job of earlier times when bottle kilns were the only kiln available. My job was more civilised and a damn sight easier too. The kiln I worked on was a Siti kiln, which was actually just a conveyor belt through a gas fired furnace. It had four rows of rollers, two in, two out and an operator at each end. Firing time was around six hours with another one for cooling before it arrived at the end for removal.

Ware was placed on bats (2'x1' ceramic trays) which were then placed on the relevant row, each row being four bats wide. The top two rows were for glazed ware, on was freshly glazed, off was finished ware. Below was clay on and biscuit off. The only skill, if it can be called that, was placing as much ware on the bat as possible and in the case of glazed ware, ensuring that the pieces weren't touching each other, as that resulted in the two pieces ending up fused together.

There were only three people who worked nights, one at each end of the kiln and a supervisor who also looked after a couple of standard kilns. As the latter only needed loading and unloading once during the night, the supervisors job was rather cushy and he regularly slept through half the shift. As my kiln was continuous, it was supposed to be the supervisors job to relieve us for a meal break and any calls of nature. We usually got the meal-break but anything else was a bonus.

I was on permanent nights and was supposed to work Monday through Friday with one Sunday every three weeks. Allowing for a little bit of bribery by my colleagues I usually did all Sunday nights.

That Sunday, the work was just about enough for me not to dwell on the week's events. Monday morning I was almost halfway to my former home before I remembered my new place. My routine after work was simple, straight to bed, usually around six thirty, and sleep for between five and eight hours. Breakfast as soon as I got up and then start my day, usually with a run. A new part of that routine was now a visit to Mum's grave.

That first Monday I couldn't help noticing a young girl kneeling by a grave not far from my mother's. When I'd left, I couldn't recall seeing her so I assumed that she'd left before me. Twice more that week I noticed her and guessed that, as she was always in school uniform, her visits were timed with school hours. These thoughts were only ever fleeting.

"It still hurts just as much doesn't it?" A voice asked some weeks later as I was standing in front of my mother's grave.